A Conflict of Duty
by Musichette
Summary: Webster's thoughts on the interrogation scene in "Points". A companion piece to Closure, by luckyricochet.


"Lieb," I fucking hate this," I muttered as we sat in the jeep, overlooking a small cabin. We were surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery in the world: white-capped mountains and rolling green hills, but I couldn't take any of it in because of my churning conscience.

Lieb didn't look at me but I could tell he was rolling his eyes as he spoke. "Jesus Christ, he fingered him. In the fucking room, Web. One of the Polacks who was at the slave camp said this is where the guy lives, right here."

"Which camp?" The words spilled out automatically.

"Whatever camp." Liebgott's voice was dismissive. "I'm under direct orders and I'm happy to follow it." He and Skinny got out and headed for the house. I stayed rooted where I was though, unwilling to move. I sighed, and forced myself to move.

"Is this a personal thing, Joe?" I asked him as I jogged to catch up. He looked at me with disbelieving eyes.

"What?"

"Is this personal to you?" It was obvious that it was, but I just wanted to hear what he would say.

"No, it's a goddamn order," he said.

"Does Major Winters know about this?" I persisted.

He brushed me off with a "Doesn't matter."

"Oh the fuck it doesn't. What if this guy's just a soldier? What if he's an officer with no ties to the SS? What if he's innocent?"

Liebgott stopped and stared me dead in the eyes. "You know what, what if he's a fucking Nazi Kommandant of a fucking slave camp?" The venom in his voice was unmistakable, and his aggression was barely being held back, but I held my ground.

"Which one, which camp?" I hissed. "You don't have any proof!" I didn't know why I was so intent on defending this man. After all, he _was_ a German soldier, no matter if he was SS or not. Just a month ago if I'd come across him I'd have shot him just the same as Liebgott clearly wanted to.

Liebgott's voice softened dangerously. "Were you at Landsberg?" he asked.

That touched a nerve. I may not have been Jewish but those horrors hadn't been any easier for me to witness than him. I almost couldn't believe his nerve for insinuating that. "You know I was," I said.

"You think he's a soldier like you and me? A fucking innocent German officer?" He looked me up and down, disgust in his eyes. I couldn't tell if it was directed at the SS or me. "Where the hell have you been for the past three years?"

* * *

The man was bald and paunchy, almost pathetic looking in his plain sweater and pants.

"Wer sind Sie?" he asked right away. "Was–was machen Sie hier?"

Liebgott told him to shut up while Skinny and I swept the house, checking for others. It was a tiny place and after one look it was clear the man was alone. My duty done, I headed for the door, but was stopped before I could leave by Liebgott's interrogation.

"Sie sind der Kommandant?" he asked.

The man only looked at him blankly. "Welcher Kommandant?"

"Vom Arbeitslager."

The man shook his head. "Ich weiß von keinem Arbeitslager. Sie haben die falsche."

"Don't fucking lie to me." I pressed my lips together as I heard that dangerous note creep into Liebgott's voice again. The man clearly didn't hear it or care, though, because he continued to protest his innocence as he sat at the table.

"Sie täuschen sich," he said. "Sie können nicht hier reinkommen–"

But Liebgott didn't care, and leaning right over the man, roared, "YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID TO MY FUCKING PEOPLE?"

To his credit, the man did not quail back, instead rising with fury of his own as he yelled back, "SIE KÖNNEN NICHT HIER REINKOMMEN."

Liebgott snapped. He grabbed the man by the collar and cocked his gun, aiming at the man's forehead. A wave of nausea rose in my throat as I watched. I'd seen enough. So I pushed open the door and went outside, the sounds of muted yelling and a shattered dish following me.

The fresh air was no help, and my hands shook as lit a cigarette. Skinny joined me shortly after, not looking too pleased either. "He's guilty," said Skinny quietly. "Liebgott says so."

"He probably is," I agreed. I didn't doubt Liebgott's word. But I couldn't watch him do it. I wondered what was wrong with me. For three years I'd been in the business of killing. Who knew how many men had died at my hands, directly and indirectly? But what Liebgott didn't understand was that I could find no joy in this. I'm not saying the other men enjoyed killing, but they found reasons to be proud of their service, whether it was to make somebody proud, or to follow in the footsteps of a hero, or just pure patriotism, bold and simple. I had none of that. My time in Easy Company was one I chose to spend because of duty and nothing more. I fought because my country needed men to fight for her, but there was nothing more in it for me. I was not proud of my part in the war. In fact, I detested the entire affair, but what could I do? It was a struggle I dealt with every day, my hatred of war versus my participation in it. Duty and pacifism were both too strong in me, yet neither one was able to overcome the other.

Skinny and I both jumped at the sound of the shot. At least it was over. That death was on Liebgott's conscience, not mine. At least, that's what I told myself.

The door flew open with a bang and Skinny and I both turned, expecting Liebgott. Instead it was the German soldier, stumbling over himself as he ran, blood dripping from a graze on his neck. Skinny and I were too startled to move, and the man pushed past us, Liebgott bursting out a second later, cocking his gun. He aimed, but when he pulled the trigger there was only the empty click of a gun with no bullets. The man was getting away.

Liebgott turned to me. "Shoot him," he ordered, quietly.

I hesitated as I watched the man running away. The strap of my M-1 cut into my shoulder.

"SHOOT HIM!" screamed Liebgott.

I believed Liebgott when he said he was the Nazi Kommandant. I had witnessed with my own eyes what his regime had done to millions of people. But I couldn't do it.

I looked Liebgott square in the eyes. "No."

Liebgott's face was drawn, sickened. He turned to see the man getting farther and farther away. I almost felt sick myself. Sick at Liebgott, so hell-bent on revenge he would shoot an old man in cold blood? Or sick at myself, for letting a practicer of genocide get away?

Then a shot rang out and the man collapsed. Skinny lowered his M-1 slowly.

* * *

Liebgott drove on the way back down, with me sitting shotgun and Skinny in the back. I avoided looking at Liebgott. I didn't say anything either, even though I was dying to ask, "Was it worth it? Do you feel you've avenged your people? Or has it changed nothing?" Not exactly nothing, I amended in my thoughts. It changed a hell of a lot for that man.

Liebgott stared straight ahead as he drove. His gaze was still hard, and I couldn't tell how he felt about the whole thing. I didn't want to argue again, so I bit my tongue. But he broke the silence himself, saying, "Officers don't run." He didn't look at me as he said it.

It was a strange thing to say. It was almost like he was trying to justify his action to me. I wasn't so naive as to think he was feeling remorse for his action, but it made me wonder, hot-blooded as Liebgott was, if at any point he had felt even the tiniest pangs of conscience. I thought about it, and had to honestly tell myself, "No." Liebgott just wasn't that type of person. He would have shot the man himself twenty times over and considered it a job well done.

He seemed to be waiting for a response though, so I said, "The war's over. Anybody would run." He didn't say anything to that, and we drove back down the mountain in silence.

* * *

_**As mentioned in the summary, this is meant to be a companion piece to the story Closure, by my sister, whose username is luckyricochet. Please check her story out and review. I hope you enjoyed reading, this was an idea that's been on my mind for a while. Reviews are always appreciated, thank you!**_


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